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THE AGE OF CHIVALRY.
»Y EDMUND L. SWIFT*.
When fiercely rush'd the Moorish Foe
To lay the Christian Ensign low,
Thy sons, Iberia! sought the field,
And grasp'd the spear, and braced the shield;
Then, to inspire the hallow'd cause,
Thy virgin daughters smiled applause;
And waked with animating eye
The gallant soul of Chivalry.
'Twas then, impatient for the fight,
The Fair beheld her favour'd Knight;
Deck'd with the meed of duteous love,
His conscious plume display'd her glove;
The colours her chaste bosom wore
His stately steed in triumph bore;
While the glad warrior waved on high
The loyal pride of Chivalry.
* These lines were written during the rate unhappy disturbance* in Ireland, when the Author was preparing for the military duties •f the night, and in sport bound a Lady's Kerchief on his arm.
s. L m.
Then to her champion, true and brave,
Amid her smiles one tear she gave;
One tear, inspiring, not depressing,
One tear, the pledge of Heaven's best blessing 5
And, as with Virtue's rosy charm,
She .bound her Kerchief on his arm,
Sweetly she said with speaking eye,
"Go forth, and prove thy Chivalry I"
So, when the trumpet pours its sound,
And rebel fury raves around,
When Erin's sons to battle speed.
And seize the sword, and spur the steed,
The maidens of the Emerald Isle
Prosper their arms with favouring smile;
And bid their hopes undaunted try
The patriot strength of Chivalry.
Then, as to save our native soil,
We tempt the war, and wake to toil,
Wouldst thou, to shield me from the foe,
Wouldst thou the guardian pledge bestow;
And give thy Kerchief's powerful charm,
To bind my brow, or deck mine arm,
How gladly would I wave on high
The loyal pride of Chivalry I
Did not I see thy brow assume
The glittering casque, the nodding plume?
And shall not thy dear touch inspire
My soul beyond the Patriot's fire!
Then place me with my brothers brave,
Whose hearts can love, whose hands can save;
On my proud arm thy favour tie,
And bid it prove my Chivalry!
BOOK THE FIRST, ELEGY THE FIRST.
TRANSLATED BY W. PRESTON, ESQ.
Thy glances, Cynthia, taught me first to prove,
Wretch that I am I the galling yoke of Love;
My heart was then a stranger to desire,
Their lambent light'ning wak'd unwonted fire.
Insulting Love, from that ill-fated hour,
With shame and sorrow mark'd his tyrant pow'r.
On me he darts the flashes of disdain,
My captive head he tramples on the plain.
He taught me then to hate the virtuous dame,
Estrang'd from good, regardless of my fame.
The guilty mind, perverted by despair,
In Dissipation sought relief from care;
At random, wild 1 liv'd, in fatal strife,
With all the rules and decencies of life.
Thro' the long year I prove the wasting fire,
And cruel gods have curst me in their ire.
Yet, Patience, still my counsellor and guide,
Reminds me, "Love by sacrifice is tried."
She bids me, thro' the tales of ages past,
Remark how passion has been crown'd at last.
I find, O Tullus, thro' the rolls of fame,
That Love for anguish is another name;
Enslav'd by passion in the days of yore,
A woman's scorn the fond Menaleon * bore.
What pangs he felt, from Atalanla's pride?
Yet Love repaid the constancy he tried.
The craggy mountain, the Parthenian cave,
Beheld him wand'ring wild, and heard him rave,
For there he chas'd the savage beasts of prey,
Uncouth in aspect, and as wild as they;
There from a rival's dart he felt the wound,
And all the mountain heard his groans resound;
Then the coy Fugitive his passion felt;
For pray'rs and kindness coldest natures melt.
Disdainful Love his arts no longer tries,
On me regarded as a certain prize,
He seeks new trophies—it for me remains,
To seek some ease, and refuge from his chains.
Ye Sages, whose resistless art can tear
The wand'ring moon reluctant from her sphere,
Behold an object that demands your skill!
With amorous feelings Cynthia's spirit fill:
Let her in passion with her Lover vie,
And tinge her cheek with the same pallid die;
Then I may trust the legends that are told,
Of all your wonders in the days of old;
Then may believe the fabled Colchian lay
Could veil the stars, and headlong rivers stay.
And ye, my friends, who kind, tho' late recall My spirits scatter'd in the dizzy fall, When to the abyss of Degradation tost, My fair resolves and youthful hopes were lost,
* Or Milanion, an epithet of Mekagcr.
Your aid apply, the latent ill explore,
With kmdly cruelty my soul restore.
The steel, the fire, with firmness I endure,
All pangs, all sufferings, that may work a cure,
Waft me to tribes remote, and ocean's bound,
Where woman's presence never may confound.
I part—I vanish—let the few remain,
Whose mutual love with flow'rs adorns the chain.
Venus for me, in all her terror sways,
My nights embitters, and o'erclouds my days;
No peace, no respite, is it mine to prove,
No moment free from anguish, and from love.
To tempt these sorrows, my companions spare,
All aie.condemn'd to some peculiar care,
For each ordain'd. Seek not, in love, to know
The pangs I felt—accumulated woe—
Too late th' infatuated wretch may mourn,
Whose heedless ears the voice of Counsel scorn.
BOOK THE FIRST, ELEGY THE SECOND.
BY THE SAME.
To Cynthia, gently reproaching her for her extreme
Solicitude about the Ornaments of her Person.
Why are thy locks with so much labour drest?
What studied care reveals the snowy breast?
Why wafts Arabia clouds of fragrance round?
Why seek in. foreign gauds the pow'r to wound i